“I don’t know that we ought to let that influence us,” he said. “You know what brain-storms are.”
Then he said he’d go through those belongings of Feeder when he had more time. What he had to do at once was to call off the search for Feeder, and report to the Colonel. Would I draft the question about the Webley for Harness to put after dinner, and tell Harness in strict confidence what had happened. If Harness had further particulars about Feeder I might as well collect them, and then if there was time I might do the same confidentially with Ferris, who must have known as much about the dead man as anybody except possibly Mortar.
Harness tried to look grieved at the news and with no great success. He had no information not already in our possession, except the address and telephone number of the school at which Feeder and Mortar had been before posting to Peakridge, so when we’d drafted the after-dinner question, I went to the lecture-room where Ferris was working. According to the time-table he ought to be finishing in a few minutes, which would allow me to be back to get Wharton on time at the police station.
The lights were on and I took an unobtrusive seat at the back, and on a form, trestle, folding flat—the official designation—which had no detachable Sorbo seat. Just when I was beginning to wriggle uncomfortably, the lecture came to an end, and five minutes later we were walking across the parade ground.
“What were you doing, Major?” he said. “Having a busman’s holiday?”
“I really came to tell you that Feeder is found,” I said.
“Is he, be jabers!” he said, and stared at me. “Can I have a few words with him? In front of you, of course?”
“I don’t know that you can,” I said. “As a matter of fact, he’s dead.”
He stopped in his tracks. I couldn’t see the expression on his face, for it was almost dark, with heavy clouds that looked like rain.
“How do you mean, dead?” he asked me quietly. Too quietly, in fact.
“Now don’t go getting ideas into your head,” I told him, and took his arm and moved on. “When we get to your room I’ll tell you all about it.”
I did tell him. Outwardly he seemed quite convinced, but I knew him too well to take that at its face value. There was a set of his jaw that I didn’t like, and an occasional sneer.
“And that’s that,” I concluded. “And now here’s where you can help. Had he any relations?”
“I’m pretty sure he hadn’t,” he said. “He once told me that he and Mortar was two perishin’ Babes in the Wood—which were his own words.”
“Well, that appears to settle that,” I said. “And now, can you tell me anything about his career that might help?”
He could tell me nothing but what I already knew, and he seemed surprised that Feeder had not told me his family history and all about himself. I reminded him that Feeder had been my batman—in my company—for about ten minutes. Then he told me that he had seen Feeder with Mortar in Spain, but naturally had had no contact with him. Feeder had acted as Mortar’s servant and as soldier at the same time, and when he and Feeder had yarned together the last few weeks, all the talks had been of engagements and experiences in the Spanish War.
“When’s he being buried?” was one of the last two questions he asked, and I had to say I didn’t know.
“How was he off for money?”
I told him, and he said he thought he ought to have had more. Mortar had always treated him generously. Then he asked if he might contribute anonymously to the funeral expenses. I said that was good of him and I’d let him know. Then I had to hurry off to Wharton’s room.
The late moon was not yet in the sky so I drove very slowly towards Peakridge, and gave George all my news. He said the Colonel had shown no signs of hysterics at the latest tragedy that had fallen on the camp, and that he had also offered to contribute towards funeral expenses. He also gave me the news that Penderby had reported that even on his last leave, which was at the end of September, Staff had been at the quarries and had personally assisted in some blasting.
“You’re going to have Staff on the mat?” I asked.
“You bet,” George said. “There may be nothing in it, but that young fellow’s not going to tell me lies and think he’s got away with it. If I don’t do anything else I’ll knock a little of his cocksureness out of him.”
We didn’t do much talking because I had to keep my eyes very much on the road. At the police station Wharton went bustling in, with apologies for being late. Everything was set, the Inspector said, and exhibited the prints on the butt of the gun.
Wharton adjusted his spectacles and had a good look. It was far too long a look, I thought, and I was not at all surprised when he was asking the Inspector what he thought of them.
“I think they’re a very clear set, sir.”
“And natural?”
“Well, they looked so to me, sir.”
Wharton pursed his lips, then asked me to have a look. I could see nothing unusual except that the print of the thumb was not so clear as the others. It was what I should describe as a dab.
“Ah!” said George exultantly. “That’s just the point.”
Then he was deciding to show no bias, for his voice was suddenly avuncular. “Let’s try and work this out. Doesn’t matter where the gun came from, whether it was his own or one he stole. The fact remains that he brought it with him to where we found him. Now then, Inspector, what do you gather from that?”
The Inspector moistened his lips, scowled, and then admitted that he hadn’t quite got it. George was delighted to demonstrate that the Old Gent, as he would occasionally refer to himself, was far more spry than he looked.
“He brought the gun, didn’t he? Then where are the prints when he handled it and loaded it? Even if he didn’t load it himself he had to put it in his pocket and take it out again. The whole gun should have been smothered with prints.”
The Inspector admitted ruefully that that should have been so.
“Well, that’s the first fishy thing,” Wharton said. “And now the prints that are here. The thumb’s only a dab, as Major Travers says, whereas it ought to be as close a print as the fingers. Imagine yourself firing that heavy Webley with a loose thumb.”
“You think the prints were superimposed after the shot?”
Wharton shrugged his shoulders.
“What I think isn’t evidence. All these facts, and they are facts, are accumulations that make evidence. But we’ve a final test—the paraffin one. You’ve heard of it?”
“Yes, sir, but we’ve never had occasion to use it here.”
Wharton picked up the paper with the dead man’s prints and compared them with those on the gun. “They’re his all right. Where’s the doctor? Somewhere handy?”
The Inspector said he was extracting the bullet. He had been unable to get him till a few minutes before Wharton’s arrival.
“Do you know the paraffin test?” Wharton asked me.
I said I’d heard of it too, but thought it had only been officially adopted as a test since the war. In any case I knew George would have been disappointed if he couldn’t have given us a brief lecture.
“It’s perfectly simple,” he said. “When a revolver’s fired, minute portions of the charge are driven back against the hand holding it. They’re not visible to the naked eye, but they’re always there, just under the skin. The way to prove it is by applying paraffin wax to the palm of the hand. The minute pieces of powder adhere to the wax and then the wax is chemically tested. If the reactions show the presence of a powder, then the hand fired the gun, and, of course, the reverse.”
“The length of time after the shot doesn’t make any difference?” I asked.
“I don’t know the time-limit,” he said. “What I do know is that the test wouldn’t be affected by the short time our man was dead. The powder particles are actually forced beneath the skin. The dew wouldn’t have washed them off, if that’s what you mean.”
It was not till an hour later that everyth
ing had been done. The local photographer had taken pictures of Feeder and of the gun and its prints. The paraffin, reinforced by a strip of linen bandage, had been applied to the right hand first, and then to the left, for Wharton was taking no chances. Both casts were carefully packed, together with the gun and the bullet, and a trusted man was taking them to town by the night train. The Yard had been notified and a man of theirs would be at the station.
We were going to be late for dinner, but George was on extraordinarily good terms with himself as we drove back to the camp.
“The Old Gent certainly scored one there,” he told me. “And now what about my hunch?”
“Good work, George,” I said. “Very good work, in fact. One question I’d like to ask, though. Do you think Feeder was killed where we actually saw him?”
“That’s a question that can’t be answered,” he said. “But what do you think we were looking for footprints for? One little print might have told us if someone was carrying the body.”
“A hefty someone,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “I reckon Feeder weighed a good fourteen stone. But not so difficult if you go about it the right way. You ought to see London firemen doing one of their stunts.”
“Then there’s the question of transport,” I said. “No man could carry that weight too far.”
“I’m not worrying about transport,” he said. “What I’m satisfied about is the wind. Blowing clean down this road from the camp the last few days, isn’t that so? Therefore I say he wasn’t shot in the camp itself or the sound must have been heard. I’d say he was lured in some way to come along this road and he was shot here because the wind carried the sound of the shot well away from the camp. Another thing. Wouldn’t that stack make a good rendezvous?”
“It certainly would,” I admitted. “But wait a minute, though. Who in the camp but Ferris was sufficiently acquainted with Feeder to make a rendezvous like that?”
“Now, now, now,” he told me placatingly. “Suppose we do bring in Ferris. When I’m on a case I suspect every man Jack till I’m satisfied otherwise.”
“And Ferris is still a suspect?” I asked witheringly.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he told me mildly. “But Ferris is the one who knows all the tricks and dodges of blowing people up. He got rid of Feeder that Saturday afternoon so that Mortar’s room was safe. He more or less kept Mortar under his eye all the afternoon and evening till the bomb went off.”
“Let me add a few,” I said. “All that earlier stuff was nothing. The Northover affair was a natural happening and so was the Mills on the bombing ground. Ferris wasn’t Mortar’s pal. All that talk of his about getting the one who did Mortar in, was only damn-fine acting. Ferris was under my eye for the last ten minutes that mattered on that Saturday night, but that was nothing, of course. He set off the bomb by waving in the air, like those coves who produce music—I beg its pardon—on some of the less ghastly B.B.C. programmes.”
“I didn’t say I did suspect him,” George said. “Not now, I mean. As a matter of fact you’d be surprised if I told you who my principal suspect was.”
“Well, and who is he?”
“I said if I told you,” he said, and chuckled.
We were getting near the camp so I had no time to think up a suitable retort to that. What I did ask was if he thought that paraffin test would prove that Feeder did not fire the Webley.
“Of course it will,” he said, and then, like lightning. “Bet you a new hat?”
“No you don’t, George,” I said. “For all I know, the next case you’re on may be something to do with the Navy and you’ll be masquerading as a ruddy admiral. Those gold-braided hats cost a hell of a lot of money.”
We apologised to the Colonel as we took our seats for dinner. The meal was well on its way, but by reducing the chewing to well below Gladstone’s standard we made almost a dead heat of it with the others. After the loyal toast, Harness got on his pins.
“I expect you’ve seen the notices posted in the N.A.A.F.I. and elsewhere, asking if anybody’s lost a Webley revolver. It’s a Mark VI of 1916, and the number is 10735. If anyone has lost such a revolver, will he report the matter to me. I should also be glad to know if it was loaded at the time it was lost, and in how many of the six chambers. Thank you, gentlemen.”
There was no sensation, even at the high table, and shortly afterwards we filed out. I was going to the cinema if George didn’t want my services, for Flick had some new Russian films which he was running off. As I came out of my room where I had gone to collect a forgotten pipe, I saw two people ahead of me. Who should they be but George and Nurse Wilton.
“The crafty old rascal!” I said to myself, and had to smile. “No wonder he dodged me when we came out.
Nurse Wilton—her Christian name was Maisie, by the way—had the kind of laugh that is sometimes called infectious. It was certainly the kind of laugh that you’d expect from her, all gurgles and trills, and as shot through with IT as the front row of a modern chorus. George was chuckling away and having a great time generally, but my own face was suddenly straightened as I wondered something. Was Maisie Wilton George’s chief suspect? Ridiculous, of course, for how could she have set off that bomb? True, she had been present at every demonstration, and what more easy than for one of her fascinating powers to cajole Store, say, into giving her a teeny-weeny bit of this and that on the pretence of wanting it for some electrical gadget?
Then I knew that my suspicions were more than ridiculous. What possible motive could she have for killing Mortar? No, what George was up to was ingratiation. Nurse Wilton was about to be made to prattle, and there was something that George hoped she would let fall. Then if she was only a minor objective, who was the main one? The answer could only be Flick.
The hall was dark and the two had disappeared somewhere inside by the time I made my way in, and as the last thing I wished to do was to spoil George’s game, I edged along the side till I found an empty pew. I then reinforced my seat by brazenly taking the Sorbo seat from another chair and making a double pad for my stern, and then settled down to enjoy the show. When the lights went up from time to time, I remembered my old nannie’s instructions on turning one’s head. Doubtless George spotted me, but no gurgles or chuckles told me where he and his partner were actually seated.
It was not till close on twenty-two hours that the show ended. The time had come when one could stand up and look round without a display of bad manners. There were George and Nurse Wilton, making their way out, well in the van of the first departures, so I left them plenty of time to get clear. As I was making a slow way back to the Mess where there would be a small gathering, Harness overtook me.
“We’ve found the owner of the lost Webley, sir.”
“Really?” I said. “Who is he?”
“Mr. Brende.”
“Good Lord!” I said, fingers at my horn-rims.
“Stolen out of his billet, he reckons, sir. It was loaded in all chambers.”
“What’d he keep it loaded for?”
“Well, he only had the six rounds, so he thought the best place to keep them was in the breech. He says his box wasn’t locked, but he wasn’t worrying about that. A man doesn’t expect to have his kit stolen, sir.”
“I know,” I said. “But why’d he have the gun at all?”
“Well, it’s really an issue for Warrant Officers in his class of job,” Harness said, and I got the idea that he was covering up something. Maybe Brende had no right to the gun and had worn it in its holster on his belt and with the pouch to give the martial touch.
We went along to the Mess. The Colonel, Collect, and Staff were there and the Colonel insisted on standing us all a drink. Wharton came in just in time to be included. Staff ventured to suggest that there might be a whip round for Feeder’s funeral expenses.
“Who told you he was dead?” Wharton demanded. Staff blushed up to the eyes and said he’d heard it. Gaining confidence he then said it was all over the ca
mp. Flick arrived in time to hear what the topic of conversation was and said he’d heard it too. Then the Colonel said he would have to be getting along, and off he went with Collect at his heels. A minute or so afterwards Ferris came in, and we left him with Staff and Flick.
“That’s Topman, the talkative old fool!” Wharton growled as we made our way to his room. “Wonder what else he’s let out?”
I waited till we were under cover before telling him about the Webley.
“Brende, eh?” he said, and gave a grim sort of smile. “Stealing a gun from a Warrant Officer. That chap Feeder could have pinched his eyebrows.”
“But surely it wasn’t Feeder who pinched the gun?” I protested. “The one who shot him did that.”
“Not necessarily,” he told me. “If Feeder could be induced to meet somebody at a rendezvous, the same somebody might have told him to provide himself with a gun, and told him where to find one.” Then he was waving all that impatiently aside. “The real point’s this. Brende’s let out as a suspect. If he’d done it he’d have brought back the gun, or left another in its place. Brende’s the very one to know that any gun is traceable from its number.”
“The gun was really a plant.”
“That’s about it,” he said. “Whoever shot Feeder tried to incriminate Brende. He didn’t think we’d issue a public notice about the gun but that we’d make private inquiries through the number and find out to whom the gun was originally issued. When we found out and asked Brende about his gun he couldn’t have helped looking a bit startled.” Then George was stifling a yawn. “Don’t know about you, but I’m turning in. We’ve had a pretty heavy day.”
I agreed and promptly said good night. As I came out into the night air again I remembered something, and deduced something. George had shoo’d me off because he didn’t want to me ask what he’d picked up from the fair Maisie at the pictures.
Chapter XIV
The Saturday was to prove the vital day of the inquiry.
Up to then there had been a slow and cumulative amassing of information, and little more, though Wharton had certainly got the camp and his list of suspects well into his skin. One might say that what had happened was the assembling of stores, weapons, and ammunition for a big advance, but that advance could not be made for the simple reason that no main objective could be determined on. Information of various kinds had been brought in and various deductions made, but the enemy had yet to be accurately located.
The Case of the Fighting Soldier: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 18